


One More Game

by HighFunctioningFandoms



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Angst, Blood, Bloodshed, Canon Gay Relationship, Crime Fighting, Cute John, Death, Drama, F/M, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gay, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Gay Sherlock, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, LGBT, Language, Love, M/M, Marriage, Mind Palace, Modern Era, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mysteries, Mystery, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Relationship(s), Serial Killers, Smut, Sociopathic Sherlock, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-07 08:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7707631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighFunctioningFandoms/pseuds/HighFunctioningFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fanfic based off of BBC's "Sherlock" by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.</p><p>This story includes many of their characters. It also includes some of my own.</p><p>In this, Sherlock is busy solving mysteries.</p><p>There is going to be some smut, so stay away if you do not care for sexual tension.</p><p>I am a slow writer, so the chapters will be shorter than most, but I hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic of Sherlock. I will try to update as much as I can.

Sherlock’s POV

“Today was amazing! The killer is at large, and will strike again! He’s good. Oooh, he’s so good! It’s like he’s everywhere. Playing with children and striking their parents. Blood everywhere; bones breaking the skin; no evidence left behind to show any sign of a break-in. Oh, I love it!”

“Sherlock! Who are you talking to?” He walked into the kitchen wearing his blue and white striped sweater. 

“Nobody.” 

“Nope. I definitely heard you talking to someone.” He walked into the living room, looking around the room. “Not that anyone’s here or anything. What have you done with our utensils?”

“Hmm?” I asked as I got up from my chair and walked over to the kitchen table.

“The utensils. You know, forks, knives, spoons.” He stared down at me.

“Oh, those things. They’re in used right now. You’ll have to find your own.”

“My own? What have you done with them exactly?”

“He’s put them to work in his ‘laboratory’.” I turned and saw as Mycroft rounded the corner. He then stood in the doorway.

“What? He’s-- You’ve done what with them?” John looked very perplexed and also worried as he got up and went into my lab.

Mycroft stared down at me as I stirred some sugar into my tea. Then he placed a folder in front of me.

“What’s this?” I asked. I hated it when he didn’t tell me anything.

“Figure it out.” He stared at me blankly, and I still refused to touch it. “Marilyn Sharpe. She was a British Intelligence Agent until three years ago.”

“So?”

“So, she has disappeared.”

“Well, isn’t that kind of the point. She’s a spy. It’s what they do: disappear.”

“She was not discharged.”

“Well there you go: she’s dead. Done. Figured it out. You can go back to your humble servants now.”

“She’s not dead either.”

“Well, how do you know? She disappeared.” I rolled my eyes. Good lord, can’t he do his own work for once?

“She has not been declared dead because 6 months ago there was an assassination in America. The CIA found 3 samples of blood. They were all different. One of them matched with her own blood.”

“So? What do you want me to do about it? It was 6 months ago.”

“There were over 200 people in a room. We have pictures and footage of every single one of them.”

“And you want me to find her.” I looked at Mycroft and then back at the folder. “What’s in it for me?”

“Murder. Bloodshed. Action.” Oh, he may be my brother, but he does know how to bribe me.

“Alright, I’ll do it.”

Once I knew he was gone for sure, I jumped up in excitement.

“Yes! Two in one! Two amazing, life-threatening cases in one day!”

“Sherlock.” I turned around and saw John again. 

“Hmm? Oh, Billy.”

“Billy?” 

“You asked me who I was talking to before.” He stared at me like it was insulting for a person to talk to a skull over a person with, not just bones, but flesh and blood too. 

“I have to go.” He went over and grabbed his coat.

“You just got here!”

“No! No, I did not just get here. I got here 20 minutes ago, and then your brother came. I was going to eat something, but NO!! I can’t because you’ve used all of our utensils by covering them in deadly chemicals! So, no! I did not just get here! And even if I did, I would not be staying.” He grunted and went off to grab a cab. 

Oh, John is so adorable when he’s angry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade reviews what happened this morning with Sherlock and John at the crime scene.

Lestrade’s POV

After today I needed to just sit down and not do anything. But, as usual, that’s never the case when you’re an inspector of Scotland Yard. 

Last night, at approximately 11:30, a call came in from a smaller neighborhood on the outskirts of London. The caller was Rose Macaffey, a 32 year-old woman, who lives next door to Zach and Elizabeth Wilson. Their two daughters, Emma, 7, and Maddy, 5, had ran over to their neighbour’s house when they discovered their parents’ dead bodies in their house. The eldest daughter, although still in shock, had reported that they had been playing with a man who had been welcomed into their home earlier that day before they went to bed. They had gone to sleep about 8:30, and when they both woke up to their mother screaming around 11:15, they had hid in their closet. After a few minutes of silence, they had went to their parents’ bedroom and found them both lying in their own blood. They weren’t sure what to do, so they ran to their neighbour’s help. Rose Macaffey thought is was best to alert Scotland Yard considering the situation. The nearest coppers arrived within 13 minutes. 

Earlier this morning, I dropped by Sherlock Holme’s flat, hoping that he’d come and help. He did. 

I could only let him take a look at the scene for about 30 minutes, which was so I wouldn’t get in trouble for letting a citizen into a crime scene. But he only needed 15 minutes.

He arrived at 8:30 am at Berkley street. Sergeant Donovan lead him in, although she seemed very tempted to punch him in the face. But then again, don’t we all? Anyways, I met up with him in the parents’ bedroom. I cleared the room so he could go to work. After he was done looking around, we exchanged our findings and thoughts of what may have happened last night. 

 

“The children had said that they were playing with a man they had never seen before, but their parents had let him into their home without hesitation.” 

“Just like the other children said about their own parents.” I remember Sherlock mumbled to himself.

“Sherlock? What have you got so far?” 

“There is no sign of breaking an entry, and we know that for sure because of the girls’ statements. But they did not hear the murderer leave, correct?”

“No. They didn’t hear anything. After they heard the screams, Emma, the older sister, had taken both her sister and herself to their closet to stay hidden until she thought was best. When there was no sounds for about 5 minutes, she took her sister and they went to their parents’ bedroom. They saw them lying dead on the floor, and so they took off to their neighbours’.”

“Screaming, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Then wouldn’t have the neighbours heard something. If I’m walking by a house late at night, then that means that the neighbourhood is bound to be quiet because mostly everyone is asleep by now.”

“Right. So your point is…?”

“It would be fairly easy to hear someone scream. Even if it wasn’t for very long, you would have to be a few hundred yards away not to hear someone scream.”

“So, you’re saying that if the neighbour was home, then they would have heard the screaming?” I never really thought about it that way. Then again, Sherlock is all about common sense. 

“Of course!” He looked around the room once more. 

“Sherlock! Wait, what are you doing?”

“The killer.”

“What about him?”

“Know one heard him after the screaming stopped. So, when did he leave the house? Did he stay until after the children leave? It would have had to been before the first squad car showed up, but not before the girls left.”

We were both silent. He’s right. It would have had to been after the girls left the house for their neighbour’s. But unlike the other stories, none of the neighbours had heard the screaming from the house. Someone should have heard, but no one came. 

“Socks.”

“What?” Sherlock and I both turned to look over at John, who was standing in the doorway.

“Socks. When a person is wearing socks, it’s nearly impossible to hear them. Plus, it would explain for why there’s no shoe prints anywhere outside.”

“Genius!! John, you are a genius!” Sherlock thought about it for only a few seconds. “If he was wearing socks, than the girls wouldn’t hear him walk downstairs since they are hardwood floors. But what happened to his shoes from before?”

“He would have taken them off. But where would he put them? If you’re walking in the dark, and with shoes, you would probably knock them against a wall or something.”

“Right you are, Inspector. So, what did he do with the shoes?” He thought about it, and it only took him a couple minutes. “Oh! That’s brilliant! That’s so incredibly brilliant!”

“What? What is it, Sherlock?” 

“He didn’t take them with him.”

Both John and I stared blankly at him.

“The shoes! He didn’t take the shoes with him! They were the only thing that would’ve made the noise.”

“Then what did he do with them?”

He came up close to me, just as he sometimes does. “Where does one put shoes in their house?”

“The closet. He would’ve put them in the dressing closet.” 

“Yes, John! Exactly!”

“Now, we just need to know what his shoes are.” I said, and so we went from there.

 

So, far, we know that the murderer is a white male. His shoe size is 9 in men’s. He plays with the children of the family, trying to be friendly with them, and when they are off to bed, he kills the parents.


	3. John's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes through the afternoon continuously judging his own life with Mary and Sherlock.

It’s been a long day. First, Sherlock was called to help Lestrade with a case about 30 minutes away. Then Mary called me because she couldn’t stop crying about the baby, and needed someone to hold. Then I headed back to Sherlock’s to get something to eat and review the case again (which didn’t happen). And now Sherlock has another bloody case to solve! And yet, out of the whole day, all he noticed of me was when my statements regarded the case from this morning! I think I’ll just stop trying to get him to notice me for once. I’m going to go get a sandwich. After all, I deserve it, and I’m hungry!! 

I walked down Baker Street and took a right near the trolley stop. I then turned down a smaller street, and there it was. Finally, a perfect sandwich. Just what I need. 

I sat at a small table in the corner of the cafe. Once the waitress came, I ordered a ham and mustard sandwich and some Earl Grey with it. This was particularly my favourite to have after a long, tiresome day. I waited only about 15 minutes until they came with my lunch. As I ate my sandwich and sipped my tea I realized that Sherlock may never notice my feelings for him. He might just see a man with a wife as his friend, and that might be all. Oh, but I do wish that he noticed more of me, or at least the little things I do to keep him happy. I mean, he’s supposed to be this famous detective that’s known for seeing and OBSERVING, but when he looks at me he doesn’t observe. It’s like he just sees right through me, as though I’m just another stranger in a crowd. 

I soon finished my late lunch, and took off for home again. But, is the house I live in really my home? Sure, it’s where Mary is, but it will never feel like the flat does at Baker Street does. In fact, 221B is the place that has ever felt like home in my whole life. It’s the place that allows me to be myself without someone yelling at me to get a job or something. 

I got back to my place with Mary about 5:00 ish. She was in the living room drinking some tea and reading a book. She seemed a whole lot calmer than earlier today, but that could mean one of two things: she actually is calm or she’s just incredibly pissed and waiting to take it all out on me. But when I sat on the soda, she didn’t say anything she just sat there and continued to read her book. For a few minutes I sat there in silence, and then I decided to speak. It may have been the biggest mistake in my life.

“So, how was your day?”

She didn’t say anything at first, and then she looked up from the pages of her book. She turned her head and glared at me with her eyes. If you’ve ever seen Star Wars, just think about that look Anakin had in Revenge of the Sith, ‘cause that’s the look my own wife was giving me at that moment. 

“Ugh… Are you okay, Mary?”

“‘Are you okay?’ ‘ARE YOU OKAY?’ Seriously? Are you seriously asking me that right now? Oh, of course I’m ok. I’ve only lost my first baby just a day ago, but there’s still a chance of me being perfectly happy!! No, JOHN! NO I AM NOT OKAY!!” She stormed off and went into our bedroom. She slammed the bedroom and door and I heard sobbing.

Maybe I should’ve mentioned that she had a miscarriage. I decided that sitting in the living room, doing nothing but staring at the wall wasn’t all that productive. I got up and knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer but more tears of sadness from within. I opened the door and walked in.

“Mary?” I sat down on the bed beside her. She was crying into her pillow like an upset teenager does. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” I rubbed her back in hope of trying to calm her down a bit. We’re both doctors, and yet, neither of us thought that she would ever have a miscarriage. The signs were there, but we both chose to ignore them, until we could no longer not notice that something was wrong. 

Nearly 10 minutes had gone by, and then she sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry, John. This isn’t your fault. None of it is. I just can’t believe that we lost him.” She looked at me with her eyes, and then I realized that the way she looked at me was the way I wish Sherlock would look at me. It may not be the way that I look at Mary, but it most definitely the way I look at him. Reluctantly, I took Mary in my arms and held her. 

Mary and I had dinner around 8:00, and then we watched a movie together. There wasn’t much to talk about except the baby that died in her stomach a day ago, but that’s rather a sensitive subject. I finally went to be around 10:00 or 10:30 ish. Mary had fallen asleep during the movie, and I chose not to wake her. So, I carried her into the bedroom. I may be a small man, but I have enough muscle to carry my own wife to our own bed. 

I woke up to my cell ringing. I reached for it and was able to answer it.

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“It’s me, Sherlock. I’ve figured something out. Get over to 221B as soon as can.”

I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside table. “It’s 2:00 in the morning.”

“Now John!!”

I put the phone down and sat up on the edge of the bed.

“What is it?” I turned to see Mary. Her eyes were just barely open.

“Sherlock.”

“You should go then. I’ll be fine.” She always says she’ll be fine, but of course, she never is. I gave her a look. “Really. Just go, John. Your friend needs you. Now go.”

“Fine.” I got dressed and went on outside. I waited on the curb until a cab came, and then I was on my way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV
> 
> Thinks about Marilyn Sharpe's case and calls John for help.

Sherlock’s POV

I summoned John’s presence and he answered, just as always. I’d been working on possibilities of where that Marilyn Sharpe may be. So far, I’ve gone through all of the files and research papers of the crime scene and the three blood samples from the scene of crime of where the assassination took place. I thought about the possible motives that the three suspects may have.

Donald Newman. He’s a 43 year old Harvard graduate and majored in medicine. He’s a very well-respected doctor in the United States, and has not had a fatality in nearly a year. He knows his way around and would be able to get nearly whatever he wanted, pay the buyer well, and probably get away with it. Newman has very few rivals when he was younger, and was known mostly for his kind words back at his hometown. 

Then there’s Mitchell Anderson. He is an attorney also in the United States, and has won most of conviction of involvement in terrorists groups ever. He mainly defends the FBI and the local authorities of Washington D.C. At age 17, he graduated from a small-town high school in Oklahoma, and went on to pursue his lawsuit career at Columbia University and graduated at the top of his class. He has lived in D.C. since his first case of convicting one of the most wanted drug dealers in the the midwest. 

And then, of course, we have our dear friend, Ms. Sharpe. She was born into an abusive family and ran away at the age of 11. She lived on the streets for a few years until a local official of Scotland Yard found her at the age of 13. The sergeant took her home so they, and adopted the Marilyn, as she was welcomed very warmly at the household of the 37 year-old sergeant and her partner. Marilyn was decorated as one of the smartest in her class at graduation of high school. She continued her academic career at Oxford, and nearly a year after, the British Intelligence took much interest of her. She became an agent as the age of 19, and was very good at what she was paid to do: kill and leave no trace of evidence. Three years ago, she was working on a case in Turkey and her identity had been compromised. For two days she was not in contact with the intelligence agency in London, and was last seen at a scene of a terrorist attack, which killed over 200 civilians. She was MIA, until a few months ago when the ME practiced labs on her blood sample that was found in the Supreme Court room of Washington D.C. 

From what we know, none of the suspects would have any possible motive of killing a man who would have been proven guilty and sentenced to prison for 25 years, but was not able to hear the verdict because of a shot that was fired from the upstairs balcony. All three suspects had been up at the balcony at one point in time because how else would have their DNA made its way up the marble steps of the Supreme Court room? Once the shot was fired, it was hard to tell what angle of the room the bullet was shot from. Anyhow, it was a perfect shot, and only took one bullet to killed the victim. Once the police traced the bullet, they found that it was one of the most common bullets that just about all law enforcement officers use. Just about anyone who knows how to use a gun would’ve been able to shoot it, but it does cancel out two of the three suspects because only one of them had specialized training in assassination. But was it really her? Why on earth would Marilyn Sharpe want the victim dead when prison is practically a death sentence within itself? Well, that’s why I must consult with John. 

Once I heard the front door open, I knew it was him. I knew it was John! I mean, who else could it possibly be? He ran right into our room and looked really cute with his really pissy face. 

“Ah, John! I was beginn--” I began to say something to him.

And then he just sort of sat down in his chair. He didn’t say a thing. He didn’t even look up, until he realized that I was staring at him with my mouth gaping open. 

“You were saying something…”

“Ah, yes… Um, I was saying the, uh, um…. Didn’t get much sleep, did you?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” Whenever John doesn’t get much sleep, he typically doesn’t yell as often as he would when he has gotten a fair amount of sleep. “About the, uh, Ms. Sharpe’s case… Yes, come with me.” I said immediately, grabbing John by the arm, practically dragging him out of his chair. We ran out the door and I called for a cab. Then we were on our way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Description of chapter in John's POV.
> 
> Next part will be continued soon!
> 
> Enjoy =)

He took my hand and he dragged me down the staircase. I could’ve jolted back away from him, like I would if any other man or woman were to do what he just did, but I didn’t. 

I followed in his footsteps, down to the curb where a cab was waiting for our arrival. We were sitting closely together in the cab so early in the morning that just sitting by his side, I was able to stay warm. As I stared at the window of the cab, lights shimmered all around me. Late-nighters were walking around England with their friends from their university. Car lights would blind drivers as they passed by each other. The sounds of sirens from a mile away was screeching so high that it woke up the residents of the flats from around. It was then that he tugged on my jacket coat. He was not quite asleep, but he sure wasn’t 100% awake either. As I scooted closer towards him, I felt my heart begin to race faster than ever before.

That’s when the cab stopped. He sat up right as the driver pressed the breaks. 

He jolted out of the cab and ran to my side of the cab saying, “Come on, John! You don’t want to miss it!”

“Miss what?”

He grabbed me by the hand again and leaped across the road. I had no choice but to follow in his footsteps as he led me to the other side of the shoreside bridge. At first I didn’t realize why he had woken me up so early in the morning just to drag me half across England, but then it hit me. Sherlock said that he had figured something out about the case and needed my help, but he definitely was not talking about the case I thought he was talking about.

What lay before was not apart of any scene of London I’d ever heard of before. The sound of the river was soft but present. I could feel the warm summer breeze hit my face as I stood at the front. 

I looked to my side to see Sherlock staring off into the distance of the horizon. He looked over to me and smiled and simply said, “Happy anniversary, John.”

I had completely forgotten that just three years ago today was the day that we were introduced by Mike Stamford. It was not the day that I had expected, but it sure was the day that changed my life more than any other day has before. 

I stood there in the dark morning thinking about nothing except how much Sherlock Holmes really had impacted my life. I was about to say something to Sherlock, so I turned around, and instead of words coming out of my mouth, Sherlock kissed me.

His soft lips against mine were so, so warm, and I couldn’t help but reach up and hug his body closer to mine. His hands held my face, and for the first time in my whole life, I realized that the place I felt the most safest was when I was with my friend --- with Sherlock.


	6. Mycroft's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's narration relates to Sherlock's and John's relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter part/POV, and I hope to be able to write more this coming week!

As I continued to sit in my chair while watching the fire burn, I thought more and more about the case of Marilyn Sharpe. Sherlock has not given me any leads of what him and John Watson have investigated so far, but I’m sure he’ doing something productive regarding his new assignment. He always enjoys new cases with different factors. 

 

Although, I must admit, even for me this case is a bit mysterious. I can’t help but think about how Ms. Sharpe would disappear and then just suddenly return to the world of the living. Why not just stay dead? Many secret agents never get the chance to leave work on and live a perfectly normal life with a clean slate. Why would she risk her identity being recognized? 

 

I took a sip of my ginger tea, and to my surprise, it had gone cold. I could remember when I poured it only five minutes ago. That’s when I looked at the old grandfather clock and realized that is was not ten past 7 o’clock. It was nearly 8:30. I had been so wrapped up in thinking about not just Ms. Sharpe’s case, but what my little brother and Mr. Watson are up to right now, so I ringed the bell for my maid to boil the kettle for me once more.

 

As I sat back down in my chair, my thoughts drifted back into what Sherlock and Watson may or may not be doing right now. It was early in the morning, and some camera surveillance showed John Watson at 221B at such an early time. About 10 or 15 minutes later, Sherlock came running out of his flat with John Watson behind him, and then I noticed that HE was pulling John by the hand. THEY were holding hands, like a couple. They left in a cab, and went out of the city. That’s when the surveillance stopped recording, since they were at the edge of London.

 

Sherlock has never had any friends before John. Yes, he has had a network of connections to people, but I wouldn’t call any of them “friends”. John Watson is the man who woke him up from that abyss of loneliness. Of course Sherlock will never admit that he’s lonely without Mr. Watson, but he most definitely is. No ordinary man would ever notice such emotion, but then again, they don’t even know how to light a candle without burning a building down. 

 

This is why I must watch out for my little brother, for he is stuck in a dangerous place. No, not a place, more like a dangerous emotion. Love. 

 

Although his love may extend further than the path of friendship that’s all it will ever be able to be. Unless of course John Watson decides to leave Mrs. Watson and his child, but even then, there is bound to be further pain and absence of love in both of their lives. 

 

Men and women. Women and women. Men and men. All sorts of sexual relationships with someone’s special other goes through what my brother is going through right now. Married wives and husbands. Engaged girlfriends. Current boyfriends. They all have cheated on someone, and in the end, it never works out with the either of the two: the one who was cheated on and the one who succeeded in cheating love. 

 

It’s not that I do not trust John Watson, it’s just that I can’t possibly trust Sherlock, for he has been compromised by this emotion that has been filling his heart since the day that man walked into his life. I am worried. I am worried for the present. I am worried about the past. But most of all, I am worried about the future to come.


End file.
